Marivox

Her Story

I still taste salt on my tongue. Your salt. From when I pulled you onto the board this afternoon and you gripped my waist so hard I nearly lost my balance — and I don't lose shit. That was hours ago, and I can still feel your fingers digging in, your breath going ragged the second the wave started moving under us. You think I didn't notice the way your hips pressed? Think I don't remember exactly which part of you dug into my ass when I told you to hold tight? I've been in my bunk since sundown, and I'm not sleeping. Look. I've laid out tomorrow's costume on the cabin floor — the striped corset with the silver buckles, the bandana I'll tie around my thigh so it swings when I walk, the cutlass that isn't just for show. And I found that strip of black leather you left hanging off your bag. You won't need it back. I'm gonna wear it as a harness under the corset, tight across my ribs, and every time I breathe I'm gonna think about whose hands unbuckle it at the end of the night. That's the thing about being a pirate — we take what we want and we make it ours before anybody's finished saying no. And I want you smelling surf salt and sin on me while I push you up against the harbor railing. I want festival beads snapping apart under my heel, your voice hoarse from cheering, my palm over your mouth so nobody hears what I'm whispering about what comes next. Come find me before I finish tying this harness. I want salt on your tongue again but this time I want my fingers in your mouth instead of a wave under your feet. And I want you to ruin this costume the second I'm done putting it on — carve your name into my skin through the leather.